Fixed Doesn't Mean Forgotten
by Tajjas
Summary: Booth's reaction the first time he saw the scars on Sweets' back. Friendship fic, set at some point post Mayhem On a Cross.
1. Unpleasant Surprise

_Friendship fic, set a some point post _Mayhem On a Cros_s. Recognizable characters (and the television show _Bones_) are not mine._

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* * *

_"Remind me again why we're doing this?"

"Because Sweets asked us to."

Booth bit back a groan and gave his forehead a quick rub, grimacing when his hand came away wet. Despite the fact that it was all of eight-thirty in the morning, the temperature was already uncomfortably high, and the humidity wasn't helping matters at all. The weather forecasters kept insisting that the unusual heat wave was due to break 'any day now,' but as far as he could tell, things weren't getting any better. And, of course, Sweets had chosen this weekend to move into his new apartment and had somehow roped him and Bones into helping him move boxes. Most of the furniture wasn't coming, at least, but Booth had no doubt that there were at least a couple dozen boxes of books in his immediate future. Probably heavy hardcovers like the ones Bones favored, the way his luck was running.

With a shake of his head, he raised his hand and knocked sharply on the door. The sooner they got started, the sooner he could go lock himself in a freezer somewhere, preferably with a beer or two.

Sweets didn't answer after the second knock, and with a frown he dug a piece of wire out of his pocket and went to work on the lock. He wasn't too worried that anything was wrong—it was far more likely that Sweets had just overslept—but if he was going to be out in this heat helping someone else move, that someone else was damn well going to be up and working too.

Bones didn't seem particularly surprised by his actions, simply moving to lean against the wall while he worked. She looked tired…probably putting in extra hours for her publisher again. He needed to convince her to take a couple days off, take a trip or something. Preferably a trip that didn't involve any remains. Maybe if he took Parker up fishing next weekend, she'd come with them. If nothing else, it had to be at least a _little _cooler on the lake.

After a moment of work, the lock clicked open obligingly, and he pushed the door open, only to step back at the wave of heat that struck him. "What the hell?"

"It's hotter in here than it is out there," Bones agreed, not looking any happier than he felt.

He sighed as he stepped inside. He didn't begrudge Sweets the help moving—he really didn't—but he couldn't help but wish that it was any other weekend. The heat had everyone on edge as it was, and he very much doubted that heavy labor was going to help matters. A quick glance around the apartment identified the source of the unpleasant increase in heat. "It looks like his air conditioner's not working." He indicated a unit in the far window, standing suspiciously silent. "Talk about lousy timing. Sweets?" There was no response, and he stepped through the entrance way and into the kitchen. "Hopefully he doesn't have…I don't know, reverse hypothermia or something." After a night in this heat, that was just about possible.

"Actually, hypothermia simply refers to a body temperature of less than ninety-five degrees, so reverse hypothermia could be considered normal—"

"Heatstroke, Bones," he interrupted, before she could hit her stride. He couldn't deal with the heat _and_ a science lesson right now. "I meant heatstroke." There were stacks of boxes scattered around, evidence that he might actually get away with just helping to move the things as opposed to having to help pack them as well, but the whirring of fans drew his attention to the other side of the counter on short order. He couldn't help a grin as he caught sight of the kid stretched out on his stomach on top of a sleeping bag on the tile floor, right under the unit's second window. Unfortunately, the complete lack of wind meant that even though the window was propped open, there wasn't any air circulating except that which the fans were generating, but he couldn't blame Sweets for trying. And the noise from two fans was probably responsible for Sweets not waking up when he was knocking on the door.

He stepped closer, intending to clap his hands together beside Sweets' ear to startle him awake, when the shadows over the kid's shoulders cleared and he couldn't help a sharp intake of breath. Sweets had stripped down to his boxers to sleep—not exactly unusual, especially in this heat, so Booth hadn't thought anything of it—but…. "Jesus."

"Booth? Is something wrong?" Bones moved up beside him and then knelt down, her fingers going to Sweets' neck to check his pulse. Sweets moved slightly under her hand but didn't awaken, and after a moment, she straightened. "What's wrong? He is slightly warm, but I'd expect that in this temperature, and his breathing and pulse both seem normal."

"It's…." He tore his eyes away from Sweets' shoulders to look over at her. "Somebody _beat_ him."

She frowned. "It's likely, yes. I believe I told you that."

"You did, but…." When she'd said scars, he'd thought…scars. Maybe one or two—or two or three, since Bones would never say 'scars' if she meant 'scar'—but somehow he'd assumed that Sweets had at most a few old marks, faint and faded with time. And not that that wasn't a horrible thought in its own right, especially since she'd said that it looked like he'd been whipped, but he'd never expected anything like what he was seeing now. More than a dozen scars, some of which were overlapping, spaced across both shoulders. And they weren't exactly light scars, either. It was obvious that if they hadn't faded by now, they never would. He was just a _kid_ for God's sake_._

Bones was still staring at him expectantly, and he shook his head and took a few steps back. "I just…I wasn't expecting that. Come on." He tugged her arm lightly, and after a moment she let him pull her back into the entrance way to the apartment. He shook his head again sharply, trying to banish the image from his mind, and then raised his voice, making sure it was loud enough to be heard over the fans. "Sweets? Are you here? Hello, anybody home?"


	2. Despite Best Efforts

_Thanks to everyone who read and especially to those who reviewed. This story has expanded slightly…originally it was a two-shot, but at the moment it looks like it'll be about four chapters. All of which are refusing to get out of my head until I get them typed up. Oh, well, so goes life. Enjoy._

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* * *

_"Sweets?" Booth called again.

Bones frowned at him, gesturing past the counter hiding Sweets' still form. "He's right there."

"Yeah, I know, it's—let's just pretend we just got here, okay?"

"Why? What does that accomplish?"

"I don't want him knowing I saw them."

"What? The scars?" Her frown deepened. "Again, what does that accomplish? You knew about them before today, and he already knows that you know."

"I know. But…." He shook his head. Maybe the right thing to do would be to just shake Sweets awake without making any attempt to hide what he'd seen. After all, she was right; he had technically known so it shouldn't make any difference. But for him, knowing and _knowing_ were two different things, and all he really wanted to do right now was just pretend that he didn't know, that he'd never seen those scars, and that Sweets was just a Star Wars geek with some kind of bizarre bent for Death Metal who'd probably been horrible at t-ball as a child. He couldn't do anything about what had been done to Sweets, so…. "Let's just do this my way, okay? Please?"

After a moment, she nodded slightly. "Okay."

"Good." He turned back towards the counter. "_Sweets!_"

This time his bark got a reaction, and a moment later Sweets caught the edge of the counter and pulled himself mostly upright, blinking and rubbing his eyes with his free hand. "Mm?"

Booth felt a smile tugging at his lips in spite of himself. The kid was obviously not a morning person. "Sweets? Hey."

"'gent Booth? Dr. Brennan?" He swiped at his eyes awkwardly, one last time. "What's wrong?"

"Nothing's wrong. We're here to help you move. Remember?" Bones prompted.

"Move?" He turned his head slightly, staring at a stack of boxes as though he'd never seen them before.

"Perhaps he's been more affected by the heat than I thought," Bones said quietly. "Do you think I should call someone?"

Booth's grin grew. "I'd say he's just not quite awake yet. Hey, Sweets?" He snapped his fingers a couple times, waiting until the kid turned his head in their direction again. "Go get dressed, splash some water on your face, and let's get this done before it gets any hotter, all right?"

Sweets blinked again and then nodded agreeably. "Okay."

Despite the fact that he was obviously only half-awake, Booth noticed that Sweets managed to avoid turning his back to them until he was in the shadow of his bedroom door. It didn't appear to be a conscious thing, it just…was. Which somehow didn't make him feel any better. He shook himself. There wasn't a damn thing he could do about what had happened, and unlike Sweets, he wasn't the kind of person to push just for the sake of pushing. Because, again, there was nothing he could _do_.

"Here. This should help."

He started for a minute, not sure what Bones meant by that, and then relaxed as she handed over a bottle—a cold bottle—of water. Judging by the second one she was holding and a third now resting on the counter, she'd raided Sweets' refrigerator.

"That's perfect, thanks." He didn't bother to open it just yet, instead putting the cool plastic against his forehead. Hopefully Sweets would have a working air conditioner in his new place. If he didn't, Booth might have to kill someone. Possibly Sweets.

There was the sound of running water from what was apparently a bathroom, and then Sweets emerged again, dressed and looking far more alert. "Hey, guys. Sorry about that, I'm not exactly at my best first thing in the morning. And I was so busy tossing and turning from the heat last night that I totally forgot to set my alarm clock."

Booth tossed him the third bottle of water, getting a nod of thanks in return. "No harm done. What's up with your air?"

Sweets shook his head. "That's one of the reasons I'm moving out. The super is horrible about actually getting things fixed in any kind of reasonable time frame. At this point I'd just buy a new one—assuming there are still any left for sale in the city, anyway, you wouldn't believe what it took to get those fans—but he won't let me install it, so…." He shrugged. "Thanks for helping."

* * *

"Booth, is something wrong?" Sweets asked as he lifted two of the last three kitchen boxes—the last boxes left in the apartment at all—to carry down to Booth's car. Fortunately, the kid had a lot more muscle than Booth would have guessed; otherwise, this whole thing would have taken twice as long.

Booth took the opportunity to make sure that his face didn't give anything away as he picked up the last box and then turned to face Sweets. "Well, let me think. It's about two hundred degrees out—" he could get away with the exaggeration since Bones had taken it upon herself to stay at Sweets' new place and organize his book collection while he and Sweets made this last trip, despite Sweets' insistence that there was no need for her to do that—"and we're back in the place with _no air_." He frowned slightly. Maybe Bones' insistence on staying behind to set up the books had really been a clever plot to stay within air conditioning. If it was, he wished that he'd thought of it first.

Sweets rolled his eyes, shifting to lean against the counter, and Booth's frown disappeared as he hid a wince. He'd been uncomfortable all morning, and the discomfort wasn't entirely weather-related given that his attempts to put that damn image out of his mind were failing miserably. From the increasingly sharp glances Sweets had been giving him, he'd noticed. Then again, Booth supposed that it had been wishful thinking to believe that he wouldn't.

"I _mean_," Sweets said finally, "you've been giving me weird looks all morning when you think I'm not looking, you look away every time I do look at you…I'm pretty sure you're not annoyed with me about anything—which, thanks, because this heat really does suck, and moving boxes in it sucks worse—so what's the deal?"

Booth looked at him for a moment and then shook his head. For all that Sweets looked even younger than usual in jeans ripped at the knees and a faded t-shirt, he was still a walking lie detector. And given his personality, the odds of him _not_ continuing to pick until Booth either gave in and told him what was bothering him or stormed out in anger were pretty much nil. He was almost tempted to do the storm out thing, but that would mean abandoning Sweets here, which meant that he'd probably call Bones to ask her to bring his car over, and not only would she be annoyed, they'd just end up in the same place at some point in the future _anyway_. And Sweets would keep picking away. He shook his head again. "It's…when we woke you up this morning, we'd already been inside your apartment for a few minutes."

"Um…okay." He shrugged slightly. "So what?"

"You were sleeping on your stomach. I saw the scars on your shoulders."

Sweets looked down at the top of the boxes he was carrying for a minute. "Oh. You hadn't before, had you?"

It didn't sound like the question really needed answering, and Booth sighed, leaning against the wall behind him. He was usually good at putting things out of his head when he didn't want to think about them. Compartmentalizing, as Bones called it, although he was pretty sure that his process was in no way similar to hers. And it wasn't as though he didn't have plenty of practice, considering how many of his own memories he was pretty damn careful not to think about. This, though…this wasn't the same thing. Aside from the fact that he was a damn kid, Sweets was one of the people that Booth considered himself responsible for keeping safe—a squint in fact if not in name—and he didn't like it when his people got hurt.

"Look, don't worry about it, all right?" Sweets said after a minute. "It's…." He shook his head. "It happened a long time ago. I'm fine."

"Your parents did it?"

His eyes flashed suddenly, and his chin lifted. "My parents loved me. They'd _never_ hurt me."

"Sorry." Booth would have held up his hands, but the box in his arms prevented it. "I didn't mean your real parents. I meant your biological parents."

"Oh." He shook his head, relaxing slightly. "No. It was one of my foster fathers. I wasn't with them that long...a few months, not even a full year, but…well, that was long enough." He stared down at the boxes in his arms for a few long moments and then looked up at Booth again. "You want the whole story?"


	3. A Story That Shouldn't Have Been

_Thanks to everyone who read and especially to those who reviewed. Fair warning, there are descriptions of child abuse in this chapter (although if you weren't expecting that, I'm not sure which story you were reading)._

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* * *

_Booth couldn't help but stare. He knew full well how he reacted when people brought up his father, and the idea of actually sitting down and discussing some of the things the man had done…well, it was never going to happen. Not with anyone. He had no idea how anyone could _offer_ to talk about something like that.

"I don't mind, really," Sweets said, apparently reading his hesitation. Which, to be fair, probably didn't take much effort. "It's…it's not something I particularly _like_ talking about, but it's not…." He trailed off with a quick shake of his head. "It's not that big a deal. And you've already seen the worst of it."

"You're serious?"

"I wouldn't have offered if I wasn't." He shrugged slightly, shifting the boxes in his arms a bit before giving Booth a half-grin. "Honestly, I'd rather just tell you than have you keep giving me those sideways looks. It's probably not as bad as whatever you're thinking anyway."

Privately, Booth very much doubted that anything that left permanent scars—especially scars like that—could be considered 'not as bad' as much of anything. Sure, he had a couple scars that were never going to go away either, but at least he'd been a grown man when those injuries had been inflicted. He settled for a slight shrug. "If you're sure."

"I am." He shifted the boxes again. "But do you mind if we do it at my new place? Because it is kind of miserably hot here, and if Dr. Brennan wants to know too…well, I would rather just say it once."

"Sure," Booth said immediately. He'd rather Bones was around too.

"Cool." Sweets gave one more quick glance around. "This is everything, so I'm going to stop on the way down and leave my keys with the super so I don't have to come back again."

No more was said after that, and the final drive over to Sweets' new place was made in somewhat uncomfortable silence. Sweets could usually be counted on to make conversation of _some_ form, but this time he had his forehead resting against the window, staring out at the passing scenery. Booth wasn't quite sure what he was supposed to say—if he was even supposed to say anything—so he ended up turning up the radio and keeping his mouth shut.

When they arrived at the apartment, they set the boxes down in the kitchen, still without speaking, and went looking for Bones. She seemed to have most of Sweets books unpacked and was currently in the process of lining them up on his bookshelves, but she looked up with a smile as they entered. "Hello. I didn't hear you get back. Did you get everything?"

Sweets nodded. "Yeah. And, uh, Booth told me about you guys seeing my scars this morning. It's…I was going to go ahead and tell him the whole story, if you wanted to hear it too."

She nodded immediately, setting the book she was holding back in the box beside her and pushing herself to her feet. "Yes."

Sweets sank down on the bed, shifting to put his back against the headboard, and then frowned, rolling sideways and digging around in a box by the bedside table for a moment. He came out with what looked to Booth like a Rubix Cube gone horribly wrong, tossing it between his hands for a moment and staring at nothing, before fixing his gaze on them. "Guess you two might want to get comfortable, then. This might take a few minutes."

Booth doubted that 'comfortable' was a good description for how any of this was going to go, and judging by the way Sweets was fiddling with the toy he didn't really think so either, but after a moment he pulled the desk chair over to the end of bed, sinking down in it backwards with his arms crossed over the backrest. Bones took a seat on the bed beside him.

Sweets looked over at the two of them, continuing to twist the toy in his hands absently. "Okay, starting from the beginning, I was really young when I went into the system. Only a couple months old. My birth mother left me in the waiting room of a hospital with a note pinned to my shirt. The first few years were pretty normal, I guess…I bounced around a lot, but that's how it goes sometimes, especially since I wasn't immediately eligible for adoption." A quick smile crossed his face, although it didn't look particularly humorous to Booth. "Suppose that's what happens where you're abandoned without the right paperwork. Anyway, up until I was just about five or so, the homes were mostly pretty good. Or, at least, no worse than indifferent. And then I got placed with this couple." He looked down, giving the toy in his hand a vicious twist.

"It was…they were young; if I wasn't the first kid who'd been fostered with them, I had to have been close. And despite the preparing-for-a-foster-kid classes, of which I assume there were at least a couple, I don't think they really realized that there are _stages_ of development with children. That you can't just expect them to be miniature adults from day one. Even at the start, they expected a more than the average barely-five year old was going to be capable of. A lot more. Intellectually I was at least a couple years ahead of most kids my age so I managed all right on that front, but physically…." He shook his head. "I was on the small side, and my fine motor control was barely average. That's what got me."

Booth frowned. "What do you mean?" He didn't doubt that Sweets had been an intelligent kid, but he wasn't sure how having a hard time coloring within the lines—which had been Parker's teacher's complaint, once upon a time—would cause someone problems.

His eyes flicked up to meet Booth's for a moment and then returned to the toy in his hands. "Reading, math, logic puzzles…I'd had foster siblings who were three, four, even five years older than me, and most of the time I could do their schoolwork better than they could. Or understand it better, anyway. But I couldn't write well—I couldn't hold the pencil correctly—fastening anything small was rough, and I absolutely could _not_ manage shoelaces." He shook his head, adding quietly. "That's why they hit me the first time."

"Because of shoelaces?" Bones asked.

He nodded. "They were in a hurry to get to church one day…a christening, I think." He shrugged. "I don't know exactly, I just remember that it was some big deal for a friend of theirs, and they were running really late. I was mostly ready, but it had taken me forever to get the buttons on my suit fastened, and then I couldn't get the laces tied on the dress shoes they'd bought me. Most of the homes I was in before that, I got hand-me-downs from the other kids, and the shoes were either Velcro or slip-ons. I knew the theory behind tying shoes, but in practice…." He shook his head. "Anyway, after I'd tried and failed a couple times, she started yelling at me to stop being stupid and hurry up. I tried to tell her that I was trying to hurry, but before I got more than three words out, she slapped me and told me not to backtalk." He looked up, a flash of old hurt crossing his face. "I _wasn't_. The stupid laces just kept slipping out of my fingers." After a moment of silence, he returned his gaze to the toy in his hands. "Anyway, when I just sort of sat there and stared at her, she hit me again. I started crying, and then _he_ was there all of a sudden, yelling that if I didn't shut up and get the damn things tied so we could get out of there, he was going to give me something to cry about."

Booth flattened his hands against the back of the chair, consciously keeping them from clenching into fists. He'd heard that threat more than once growing up, usually roared by a drunken father, and he knew damn well that it never heralded anything good.

"I tried. I did. But the tears made hard to see, and the laces were so thin." Sweets shook his head again and then his gaze shifted to the wall past Booth though his hands didn't stop moving. "He just used his hand that time, I think, although I was so freaked out by the whole thing that all I really remember clearly about the rest of that afternoon is sitting in church trying not to cry and hoping that neither of them would notice that my shoelaces weren't really tied, just tucked down inside my shoes. I mean, first of all it hurt, and second of all it was so…random. They'd yelled at me before, but I'd always managed to get whatever they wanted done done, so it had never gone that far." He gave the toy another sharp twist. "After that, I guess they decided it was pretty effective, though, because they started to do it pretty regularly. Hit me, I mean. A slap, a cuff, a spanking…the first couple times it was always because I couldn't manage something I was supposed to do, no matter how ridiculous it was, but after awhile…I don't know. It seemed like they stopped even having reasons. Or at least they stopped telling me what the reasons were. And they started hitting a lot harder, too. She wasn't as bad…even at the end, she usually stuck to a wooden spoon or a hairbrush, depending on what was closest. But him…he just hit me with whatever he could get his hands on." He shook his head sharply; suddenly giving the toy he was twisting much more attention.

"The scars are from a whip?" Booth prompted quietly, when it didn't look like Sweets was going to continue. He wasn't sure he really wanted it confirmed, but Sweets had managed to get this far, so….

Sweets' eyes flicked up, meeting his for a moment. "That's what it looks like, doesn't it? But no. Even they didn't exactly keep a whip hanging in the closet. It was an electric cord." He shook his head again. "He only used it a few times—I'm not even sure what made him grab it that first time; I mean, you'd think electric cords would be kind of low on the potential-objects-to-hit-people-with scale—but…well, you saw the scars. It cut into my skin pretty deep with almost every stroke, so a few times was all it took."

"Judging by the scarring, I would say that the blows were placed fairly exactly," Bones said.

"He had good aim. And I'd learned to stay still by then. Getting hit in the face with a belt tends to emphasize that." He shook his head. "That was one of the few times that I had a visible bruise when my social worker came by—not that she came by very often—but he told her that I'd walked into a door, and I was too scared to say anything different."

Booth closed his eyes, almost wishing he'd just said that he didn't want to hear it. "How long before you told someone?"

"I never did."

"But—"

"Never," Sweets interrupted flatly. "I'm not sure if I'd ever have managed to tell _anyway_, but not too long after it started getting bad, right after the incident with the belt, I totally stopped talking. I could never figure out what was backtalk and what wasn't, and since neither of them actually cared what I had to say…I guess it was easier to just say nothing."

"Then how did you get out of there?" Bones asked, and then, in a slightly sharper voice, "It wasn't a routine transfer, was it?"

Booth felt a moment of panic as well, because if those bastards had kept hurting kids after Sweets, he wasn't sure what he was going to do. Fortunately, Sweets shook his head immediately.

"No. No, they were arrested for what they did to me." Once again, he returned his attention to the toy for a minute before continuing. "It wasn't because of anything I managed to do though. They'd pulled me out of preschool, but kindergarten was a requirement so they had to let me go. On the second day, one of the other kids knocked me down on the playground and reopened a couple cuts on my back. When the teacher saw the blood soaking through my shirt she sent me to the nurse, the nurse made me take off my shirt so she could check the damage, and an hour after that my social worker was there with the paperwork for an emergency placement. They took all kinds of pictures, asked me all kinds of questions…guess it was a good thing that the electric cord and the spoon and everything were just laying around the house to be matched with the injuries, because I never managed to answer a single one."

"That's not your fault," Booth said immediately, and then, when Sweets showed no sign of responding, "Is that when you went to live with your parents?"

"They were my next placement after the emergency one." He shook his head. "The sick part of it is, in a way I actually owe those two my parents."

"What do you mean?" Bones asked, before Booth could.

"There's an age limit on prospective adoptive parents, and both of mine were beyond it. There's no way that they would have been allowed to adopt a normal kid. But the rules are relaxed for special needs kids, mostly because there aren't a lot of people willing to take them. I mean, it's kind of a lot of work when you've got a kid who won't talk, gets so anxious he throws up after two meals out of three—assuming you can get him out of whatever dark corner he's crawled into to actually eat those meals—and usually wakes up screaming at least once a night. But since I _was_ special needs after those two got through with me, and I was already living with my parents when I finally became eligible for adoption, social services allowed the placement." He went silent for a minute before adding, "Mom and Dad were the best. They never got mad at me. Not for any of it. They just…helped."

"Well, they seemed to have got you talking again," Booth agreed after a moment. "At least _I_ haven't seen any problems on that front." As far as teasing went, it was a pretty pathetic attempt, but it was the best he could manage just then.

It got a half-smile out of Sweets, though, and he shook himself as his expression cleared. "That happened maybe six months after I went to live with them. Something like that, anyway. They'd just started the adoption process—there's a waiting period involved, even for foster families—but they promised I was going to stay with them forever, and nobody would ever hurt me again. I guess I thought I might like to talk to them after that. So I did."

Booth felt the corner of his mouth twitch at the simplicity of the statement, despite the absolute lack of humor in the rest of the story. "Just like that, huh?"

Sweets nodded, finally setting aside the toy and raising his head to meet their eyes steadily. "Basically, yeah. There was never anything physically wrong with me that was keeping me from talking, I was just scared." His smile grew, although it never quite reached his eyes. "It was kind of funny, actually…they'd reached the point where they'd given up on speech therapists and had started teaching me sign language so I could communicate, and 'Can I have a story?' was pretty much totally out of left field. You should have seen the look on my social worker's face when I wouldn't shut up at the final adoption hearing a couple months later. I think Dad laughed for a solid ten minutes after we left the courtroom." He shook his head and then pushed himself up off the bed suddenly, headed for the bedroom door. "Are you guys hungry? I'm getting hungry. I think I should have some stuff for sandwiches somewhere around here."


	4. Being Friends

_Thanks to everyone who read and especially to those who reviewed. Not sure if this is the final chapter or if there's going to be one more from Sweets' POV (it's not cooperating at the moment, and I'm not sure it's necessary anyway), but if this does end up being the end of it, I hope everyone enjoyed it._

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* * *

_"We're supposed to say something, right?" Bones asked, staring at the door through which Sweets had exited.

Booth shook his head. He wasn't very good at doing the whole touchy-feely thing, and he sure as hell didn't _like_ doing it, but given a choice between him and Bones, he was probably better equipped. And she was right, they had to say something. Sweets was actually a pretty tough kid—he'd certainly never hesitated to stand his ground against Booth, which wasn't something that everyone could manage—but no one could just shake off a story like he'd just told. And considering that there had been _months _of escalating abuse...even if Sweets had only spoken to them of one incident in real detail, Booth had no doubt that he remembered all the rest as well.

Bones was still staring at him, expectantly, and he sighed. "Yeah. But I'm not sure what." With another shake of his head he stood, stepping forward to retrieve Sweets' toy. He'd been right the first time; the thing had way too many squares on each side to be a Rubix Cube. But other than that, and the fact that the color had faded to muted pastels on most of the squares, it looked pretty similar. He juggled it in his hand for a moment and then turned to head into the other room.

Sweets was standing in the kitchen area facing the far counter, his back to them, and Booth approached slowly. He had no idea what he was going to do if the kid was crying. "Sweets? You all right?"

"I'm fine."

Booth frowned, reaching out and squeezing his shoulder lightly, and Sweets turned his head and gave him a half-smile.

"Really, I'm okay. Like I said, it's not my favorite thing to talk about, but it's not like it's going to give me nightmares for a week or anything like that, either. I understood a long time ago that it wasn't my fault. That they had no right to hurt me like that." He gave a quick shake of his head and then stepped sideways, moving out from under Booth's hand. "Anyway, I've got turkey and peanut butter and jelly here, if you guys want sandwiches."

He looked over at Bones and shrugged slightly at her questioning glance. Sweets _sounded_ okay…his smile still looked a little haunted, but Booth couldn't exactly blame him for that.

"I'd like peanut butter and jelly," Bones said after a minute.

Sweets nodded, reaching up into the nearest cabinet for a loaf of bread. "One or two?"

"One."

He turned enough to look at Booth.

"Uh, turkey for me, I guess. Two." He'd done enough lifting today to justify it. Sweets began to assemble the sandwiches, his back still to them, and Booth debated whether he should keep pushing or not. Unfortunately, he wasn't the psychiatrist. Sweets was. And while he was pretty damn sure that Sweets would keep pushing if their positions were reversed…hell, he didn't know. He was starting to wonder if he could get away with making a quick call to Gordon Gordon and getting some insight that way, but even if did manage it, it would probably lead to talk about sharing and bonding and God knew what else, and he really didn't want to go _there_ either. But….

"There should be mustard in the fridge," Sweets said in the silence. "Cheese and mayo too, if you want them."

Booth assumed that was directed at him since none of that seemed to fit very well with peanut butter and jelly, and he grabbed the condiments as well as three more bottles of water.

When Sweets turned around with the sandwiches, Bones managed to maneuver him so he was seated between the two of them, and Booth hid a grin. She might not quite know what to say, but despite what Sweets claimed, she obviously didn't think that everything was back to normal either.

Sweets had to have noticed, but he didn't comment as he handed over the extra two plates.

"You broke your toy," Booth said, trying for casual as he held out the cube. It wasn't exactly the best conversation opener, but if he didn't say something, the whole meal was probably going to be eaten in silence, and there was no way that that was going to be comfortable for anyone.

Sweets took it with a frown, and then his lips twitched as Booth indicated the mismatched colors. "It's a puzzle. That's kind of the point."

He ignored his plate, turning and twisting the cube in his hand quickly, and, in what Booth considered a ridiculously short span of time—as in about the same amount of time it took him to finish his first sandwich—Sweets had returned the cube to its original form. He set it in the center of the table after he finished, staring at it in silence for a minute, and then, "Mom got that for me to keep me busy while we were waiting for the adoption hearing. We had to be at the courthouse at ten, but then we had to wait for forever for anyone to actually see us. Mostly I keep it around for sentimental value; I learned how to work it a long time ago."

"You're telling me that you couldn't tie your shoes but you could solve _that_?" Booth had to ask.

That got more of a smile than Booth had seen since he'd first brought up scars. "Well, I had learned to tie my shoes by then, actually, but I don't think I solved it that day." He shrugged. "It looks a lot harder than it really is, you just have to figure out a few patterns."

Booth picked up the cube again, turning it in his hand again for a moment and then putting it back down on the table. "Right."

"Actually he's perfectly correct," Bones said, before turning to Sweets. "Do you have the larger versions?"

"The six and seven square?" Sweets shrugged. "I did, but I think I got rid of them when I moved out here. They're not really very interesting after you know how to solve them."

"That's true."

Booth shook his head at the sheer geekiness that had suddenly surrounded him and turned his attention to his second sandwich. Sweets was at least talking to them, that had to be a good sign.

"I want to go swimming," Bones announced a moment later, as she finished the last bite of her lunch and dusted her fingers off over the plate.

"Hm?" Booth frowned at the total non-sequiter, glancing over at Sweets, but Sweets looked a little confused as well.

"Swimming," she repeated. "We've done a great deal of work today, it's hot out, and my place has a pool. Do you two want to swim?"

Sweets shrugged, putting his barely-touched sandwich back down and pushing the plate away. "Uh, sure, I guess I'm in. Unpacking can wait."

"Me too," Booth agreed. He frowned, indicating Sweets' lunch. "Aren't you going to finish that?"

"I'm not really hungry."

Bones frowned. "But you said—"

"Why don't you grab your stuff, then?" Booth interrupted. "We might as well just take my car. Although I'll need to swing by my place and pick up my suit."

Sweets nodded at that, dumping the remains of the sandwich into the trash and disappearing into his bedroom without another word.

"He said he was hungry," Bones said with a frown. "Didn't you hear him say he was hungry?"

"I'm pretty sure that was just an excuse to leave the room." Which Booth couldn't exactly blame him for. And he knew damn well that if he'd somehow been roped into talking about certain parts of his childhood—in some weird, alternate reality, because it sure as hell wasn't going to happen in this one—he wouldn't be too hungry afterward either.

She shook her head. "He skipped breakfast and then did an unusual amount of manual labor this morning. He should eat."

"Look, how about we swim for awhile and then watch a movie or two at your place. We can order in Chinese or Thai or whatever for dinner and make sure he eats something then." Now that he thought about it, she was probably right about Sweets _needing_ to eat, however little he might want to. But given what he'd said about throwing up after meals when he was upset—even if he had been talking about when he was considerably younger—Booth wasn't about to try forcing the issue.

She considered for a moment and then nodded. "That's a very good plan."

"Let's just be casual about it, all right?"

* * *

"I give! Truce! Uncle! Whatever!"

Sweets hands were held up in a defensive position, his back to the edge of the pool, and Booth grinned. "What do you think, Bones?"

They'd arrived at the pool just as the college kids who'd been using the floating basketball net had been clearing out for lunch, and since it was set up in deep enough water that the younger children at the pool hadn't been able to easily get to it, they'd been able to appropriate it for their own use. Between them, Sweets and Bones had actually managed to hold their own against him, although Booth blamed most of that on the fact that the water had slowed him down when it came to getting around Sweets' blocks and that Bones was just tricky. Because there was no way in hell that a couple squints could actually beat him in a game, even if it was two on one.

And then Sweets had dunked Bones. It probably really had been an accident, as he'd claimed, but since her usual defensive techniques—minus a few things like eye-gouging that couldn't really be justified for use on a friend—didn't work so well in the water where she had no leverage, Booth had decided to give her a hand in getting revenge. Sweets had done the sensible thing and retreated, or at least tried to retreat, after the first couple times they'd dunked him in return, but the pool was only so large.

Bones seemed to consider Booth's question for a minute, maneuvering neatly to keep Sweets from escaping, and then her expression shifted suddenly. "I think it's getting crowded again. Why don't we go get changed and watch a movie?"

It was getting crowded in the pool, that was true enough, but she was so obviously proud of herself for the 'casual' insertion that Booth saw Sweets' eyes narrow. Without thinking, he reached out and snagged the kid's arm quickly, drawing him close enough so Booth could clamp his hand on his shoulder and force him underwater. It was as close to privacy as he and Bones were going to get at the moment. "Good going, Bones. We'll meet you up there, all right?"

"Should I order food?"

He wasn't hungry again yet—they'd only been at the pool for an hour, an hour and a half at the most, so he probably wouldn't be for awhile—but Sweets had relaxed during the basketball game, and during the whole revenge-by-dunking thing he'd started to laugh again. Booth figured that there was a good chance that he'd be ready to eat now. Besides, they could always nuke the food again later if they needed to. "That sounds good." He could feel the material of Sweets' t-shirt bunching and twisting under his hands as Sweets tried and failed to break his grip. "You better go; I won't be able to hold onto him much longer."

She turned, and then paused for a second, glancing down at the figure underwater. "He's going to be okay?"

"I think so." He was a tough kid, after all. And they'd keep an eye on him until they were sure. She nodded and turned away, catching the edge of the pool to pull herself out, and he shifted his grip to Sweets' neck, squeezing lightly before letting him break the surface again. "So, movies, yeah?"

"Was that necessary? Seriously?" Sweets asked, grinning.

"I'm going to go with 'yes.' Come on, let's go before we get stuck watching some History Channel documentary."

"I like the History Channel."

Booth shook his head and caught him in a headlock, dunking him one last time just on principle.


	5. Having Friends

_Yay, it's finished! Last chapter, this time from Sweets' point of view. Hope everyone enjoyed the story_—_there's that little review button at the bottom if you have a moment and the inclination to give it a click_—_and I'll get back to Once a Bother and River of Dreams now._

_

* * *

_Lance yawned, pulling his legs up under him and tugging the blanket off the back of the chair to wrap around himself. As soon as Booth finished defending the historical merits of Indiana Jones to Brennan—he wasn't sure exactly how that argument had started, nor why Booth thought he had a snowball's chance in hell of actually winning it—he was probably going to get teased, but right now he didn't really care. His nerves were way more raw than he cared to admit. He hadn't lied when he'd told Booth that he wouldn't have a week's worth of nightmares after talking about his scars, but he _was_ expecting a bad night or two. Not screaming dreams or anything like that, but…well, probably not a lot of sleeping either.

The memories that story always dredged up hadn't entirely faded and they probably never would. Not as long as sliding a hand over the back of his shoulders gave an ample physical reminder, anyway. And he'd also just moved to a new place, which, in terms of having air was a good thing, but while he'd never admit it, he never had been the fastest to relax in new surroundings. A strange room wasn't usually conducive to a good night's rest on a good day. And, far more important than any other reason, this was the first time telling that story that he hadn't been able to call Mom and Dad immediately afterward. Of course, he was a grown man, so he shouldn't _need_ to call them, but the fact that he _couldn't_….

He sighed to himself, pulling his legs in tighter. He'd thought about telling Daisy. He'd thought about it a lot, especially recently. He and April had never gotten past the it-happened-a-long-time-ago-and-no-it-wasn't-my-parents stage—although since, like most people, he didn't regularly keep his shirt on during sex, she had known about the scars—but Daisy…. He shook his head slightly. He could see himself telling her more. And despite the fact that she respected his privacy, he knew she was curious. It was just the fact that he couldn't call his parents and get their reassurance that was holding him back. He supposed he should consider this a dry run; see just how bad he was going to react.

He turned a bit more, resting his cheek against the back of the chair. If Booth hadn't seen the scars this morning, he probably wouldn't even be doing a dry run now, if he was being honest with himself. Oh, Booth wouldn't have pushed if he hadn't offered, hell, he probably wouldn't even have asked, but those stupid sideways glances would have continued. Booth didn't compartmentalize nearly as well as Brennan, especially when it came to people being hurt. Which, definitely mentally healthier, but not so helpful in this situation. Compared to the continuation of those irritating glances, telling had totally been the lesser of two evils.

And the rest of the day, after that mess, had actually been pretty good. The previous few times he'd told someone, he'd spent the rest of the day after he'd talked to his parents curled up in his bed with the lights off listening to Death Metal at a just-below-deafening volume. Drowning out one set of angry voices with another, in a way. But being repeatedly forced underwater—mostly Booth's fault, although to be fair he hadn't fought that hard—and then being stuffed so full of Thai food he was pretty sure he wouldn't eat for the rest of the week—entirely Brennan's doing; towards the end Booth was just rolling his eyes and helping him shift the still-full cartons back to the other side of the table without Brennan noticing—and then hanging out watching movies had been a definite improvement. And thankfully there hadn't been any pitying looks shot his way by either of them, because he hated _that_ worse than anything except people making nasty assumptions about his parents. It just…. He sighed. He just wanted to hear his parents right now, somewhere besides in his head, so bad. He took a deep breath, forcing his breathing into the calming patterns he'd learned years ago. What was, was; there was nothing he could do about it.

"Sweets? Hey."

He blinked up in surprise, unsure how Booth had managed to come up beside him. Hadn't he just been sitting on the couch with Brennan arguing with her about antique cups and collapsing temples? And when had it gotten dark out?

"Come on, even a twelve year old can't nap curled up like that for very long without getting cricks in his neck," Booth said. A hand slipped between his back and the back of the chair, urging him forwards. "Up."

Lance yawned, debating whether to argue the 'twelve' comment.

"If you lie down on the couch now, we won't have to wake you up to move you again later," Brennan said. "Booth said he can't move you without waking you up."

"Yeah, because even if he _looks _like a kid, he's still six feet tall," Booth defended.

He blinked slowly. He must have fallen asleep, but…he didn't feel jittery. At all.

"Up. Couch," Booth insisted. "I get the spare room; you're young enough that you don't have to worry about waking up with a sore back."

That sounded a little like he might not have to go home by himself tonight, and he yawned again and decided not to worry about being called twelve too much. It wasn't like he wasn't used to the teasing, after all. And, if he _could_ get a full night's sleep without those memories intruding…. "Thanks," he said quietly.

One set of hands resettled the blanket around him as he stretched out on the couch; another set patted his back lightly, squeezed his neck. Some rustling as two figures took seats in front of him followed, their backs coming to rest against the couch he was lying on, as the smell of Thai food once again filled the room. Low voices resumed arguing not long after. Something about the feasibility of a high-speed car chase through Paris this time, although he couldn't remember Indiana Jones ever doing _that_. He yawned one last time, and then he let his eyes drift shut, still feeling oddly calm. They hadn't been quite the right hands, and what he was hearing weren't the voices he wanted the most, but…they were pretty okay. He'd be okay.


End file.
